(Mia)Three days later I am standing in my mother’s sitting room wishing I had brought Calder for moral support.“No,” I say.My mother stares at me. “No?”“No giant event. No magazine spread. No six hundred guests. No florist flown in from Milan. No designer fittings turned into a media circus. This is not an A-Lister event.”She looks offended already.“This is your wedding day, Mia.”“Exactly, mine. Not yours.”My mother folds her arms. “You are being dramatic.”“I am being clear.”“Let her have it however she wants,” my father says.Mother looks at him like he is supposed to fix this. He doesn’t.She turns back to me. “People will expect something elegant.”“People will survive disappointment,” he says.“This is not the way the Vincents do things.”“That is exactly the problem. I don’t want it done the way the Vincens normally would.”Her expression changes.“This is my day,” I say. “Not yours. Not Harriet’s. Mine.”“And Calder’s,” Donald says quietly.“Yes. And Calder’s.” I look
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